Ghost Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

shadows on the front porch.
    He was huge. Not built like a weight lifter or anything, just a naturally big-boned, brawny man standing almost as tall as I. His dark hair was gathered at the nape of his neck with a bit of ribbon. A long, dark blue coat fell to his calves, its sleeves marked with gold braid. Beneath that, he wore a uniform—a tight-fitting blue jacket, white shirt, white pants, and high black boots. He carried some kind of long-handled ax over one shoulder, and as I came to a halt, he was already drawing a flintlock pistol from his belt with his free hand. He leveled it just a little bit to one side of me and called out, “Halt! Identify yourself, scoundrel, or begone!”
    â€œScoundrel?” I asked, putting my fingers on my chest as if distressed at the accusation. “That’s a little unfair.”
    â€œYe’ve the look of a scoundrel!” boomed the man. “And a dandysprat and a ragamuffin. Though I’ll admit, for all that, ye could yet be a congressman.” I could see the white flash of his teeth in the dark as he smiled. “Give me a name, man.”
    â€œHarry Dresden,” I said in a clear tone.
    The barrel of the gun wavered a few more degrees away from me. “The wizard?”
    â€œThe late wizard,” I replied, then gestured down at myself. “The late Harry Dresden, really.”
    â€œZounds,” the man said. He frowned for a moment as if in thought.
    It didn’t look natural on him.
    â€œIf you lie,” he said slowly, “I can see no veritable reason for doing so, and I am inclined to shoot you. Yet if you tell the truth, your presence here draws mischief to my friend’s house, and I am inclined to shoot you repeatedly.” He nodded firmly and settled the gun’s barrel on me. “Either way . . .”
    He was about to shoot. I didn’t know if it would re-kill me or not, but given what I had experienced of the universe, it might. At the very least, I figured, it would probably hurt like a son of a bitch. I had to keep this bozo from bringing the hammer down. Assuming his period outfit was authentic, that might be simple.
    â€œLittle rude, isn’t it, to shoot me?” I asked him. “I’m unarmed, and I’ve offered no violence or insult to you. Introduced myself, even. Whereas you haven’t even told me your name.”
    The man in the blue coat looked suddenly abashed, and the pistol dropped slightly once more. “Ah yes. Um, please excuse me. Societal graces were imperfectly instilled in me in my youth, and that sad fact tends to be reflected in my more temperate afterlife.” He straightened and literally clicked his heels together, without ever moving the gun far from me, and gave me a slight bow. “The late Captain Sir Stuart Winchester of the Colonial Marines.”
    I arched an eyebrow. “ Sir Stuart of the Colonial Marines?”
    He shrugged. “It is a protracted and complex tale.”
    â€œWell, Stu,” I said, “with all due respect, my business here is not with you. It’s with Mr. Lindquist.”
    â€œI hardly think so,” Stu sniffed. “Have you an invitation?”
    I gave him a blank look for a moment and then said, “I’m new to the whole ghost thing, but I’m damned sure you don’t just send out envelopes through the U.S. Ghostal Service.”
    â€œYe’d be surprised how many postal workers leave a shade behind,” Stu countered. “The routine, methinks, is what keeps them making their rounds. The poor things don’t even realize anything’s changed.”
    â€œDon’t change the subject,” I said. “I need to talk to Mort.”
    â€œI am sorry, sir,” Stu said. “But the standing order regarding the visit of any uninvited ghosts is to deny them entry.”
    â€œAnd you have to follow Mort’s orders?”
    â€œIt isn’t as though you could cross his threshold